


deer lay down their bones

by Anonymous



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: AU in that Henry has one (1) shred of decency, Child Neglect, Eating Disorders, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Love Pentagon, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Oblivious Richard Papen, Past Child Abuse, Richard Papen's Resting Bitch Face, Unreliable Narrator, me giving some decent characterization to what is basically a reader insert by sheer force of will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: If Richard noticed their attentions, he disregarded it as no more than his own mind conjuring his desires up for him, a self-absorbed visitor to the museum imagining that the painted eyes of a favored portrait were directed athim.
Relationships: Camilla Macaulay/Richard Papen (one-sided), Francis Abernathy/Richard Papen, Richard Papen/Henry Winter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 116
Collections: Anonymous





	deer lay down their bones

**Author's Note:**

> tw: disordered eating, drugs and alcohol, child abuse/child neglect, internalized homophobia, homophobia, character death, implied/referenced murder, very subtly implied incest (open to interpretation if that's the motivation or not), all the usual tsh fucked-up-ness.

If Richard noticed their attentions, he disregarded it as no more than his own mind conjuring his desires up for him, a self-absorbed visitor to the museum imagining that the painted eyes of a favored portrait were directed at _him_. 

On the part of the others, the possibility of a new addition to their insular little clique, however narrow a chance it may be, piqued their interest. They each investigated him in their own liminal ways, their enlightened versions of quick glances out of the corners of their eyes. Henry knew, having been the student Julian was meeting with when Richard arrived to ask about joining, that Richard was not descended from French royalty, or at least if he was, he was not willing to admit it publicly. Meanwhile, a bit of light questioning of Marion by Bunny found that Richard had made remarkably little impression at their rather gossipy campus; _apparently_ he _might_ be from California, based on his accent, but that was as much as Marion could say. Charles charmed a secretary into revealing that Richard had recently acquired employment assisting a Dr. Roland, professor of psychology, and both Francis and Camilla noted that the last name Papen was seemed familiar, no, not the thing with the French royalty, something else just on the tip of their tongues. Henry, dry as a bone, suggested some sort of connection to Franz Von Papen, which made Charles laugh. In the end, their covert investigation left them with mere scraps, which were so threadbare and dubious they ended up raising more questions than they answered. 

A good mystery can be a most enjoyable past time, and several members of the group found speculating on the nature of this new character to be an excellent source of light entertainment. Mostly they just day-dreamed up lives for him (“maybe he really is an exiled prince,” Francis mused, cigarette delicately balanced between two fingers, “or at least some distant descendant, seeking anonymity in the wilds of Vermont”; “maybe he’s avoiding any association with his Nazi grandfather,” Charles replied, a touch more sharply than was necessary; “maybe we should be working on our Greek assignment,” Henry suggested placidly, and that was that, at least for the moment.)

Part of the intrigue came from the definite sense that Richard was watching them as well; their dance of near misses and careful avoidances was weaving a gleaming web between them, delicate and luminescent as a spider’s. The twins saw him glancing up to where Bunny stood calling down to them; Henry noticed Richard’s coffee-brown eyes trailing his progress across the lawn, his fawn-colored hand lifting to point him out to a companion, his head dipping to hear their commentary; and, Francis was delighted to learn, Richard had been enquiring around campus about _him_ , often enough that there were now speculative whisperings about Richard’s sexual inclinations. 

This particular tidbit, and the way Charles suppressed a frown at seeing Francis’ reaction to it, was enough for Francis to quite deliberately leave for class six or seven minutes early so that he could brush close by Richard, close enough to smell the unobtrusive sandalwood cologne Richard wore and feel him startle like a wild creature at the muffled touch of Francis’ arm. Swallowing laughter as capricious and child-like as a fey’s, Francis continued on to the Lyceum. 

“He _is_ gay,” Francis announced cheerily, trying not to gauge Charles’ reaction too obviously. “I’m certain of it.” 

A few seats down, Henry sighed audibly. “Francis, please do not discuss your conquests in class. It is most distasteful.” 

Francis hummed but did not deny the accusation, causing Henry to deepen his frown.

It was quite unexpected when Richard appeared behind them out of the depths of the library. In all their speculations they had never had cause to think of his voice and were thus surprised by its smooth, slightly husky cadence, and the way he shifted some of his vowels in a distinctly Californian manner. 

The beauty of his voice was such a shock that for a moment Henry found himself caught off guard, but quickly he was able to draw himself back together, sweep the others away.

Henry had begun to grow rather tired of the whole affair practically as soon as it had begun, and by this point, he had decided Francis had wondered over the shiny novelty of this new bauble long enough. If they kept on looking at it, after all, they would be expected to buy it, and while it was all well and good to speculate on the stranger’s personality as a past time, it was a quite different thing to have him join their class. 

Alas, Henry's assumption was utterly misplaced. Only a day after the incident in the library, Julian announced that they would be gaining a new student; "A Mr. Richard Papen," Julian said. "I hope you will do your utmost to make him feel welcome."

Affecting aloofness, Francis propositioned Richard in Greek as soon as Richard arrived for Greek class that first day; Richard blinked, his eyes revealing only clear, fair bewilderment, his expression inscrutable. “Nothing,” Francis answered him when he asked about it in a voice so innocent as to be feigned.

When Richard turned aside to put down his bag, Camilla raised her eyebrows at Francis in sharp reproach; Francis grinned in answer. Henry watched with cool disapproval for a moment, and then turned his gaze to Richard himself. 

Richard was a slender, tall man, with curls, freckles, and eyes all the same shade of coffee brown. Unlike the rest of them, with their skin tones a range from alabaster to ivory, his was darker, warmer— the color of the paler part of a fawn's coat, just under the chin where the pigmented auburn turned to a light, yellow-toned tan. His face was as finely sculpted as a statue, his brows dark and distinct in their framing of those equally dark eyes, which had a certain expressive quality that Henry found oddly appealing. His clothing was far less pleasant to look upon than his face; a simple white button-up, of no particular quality, rolled up at the elbows; gray slacks, somewhat too large; a pair of simple black boots, unpolished.

Later during that class, Richard watched Camilla as she recited from the Orestia, his doe eyes bright with reflected light. Fool, Henry thought. Camilla was nearly as fond as playing with others’ hearts as Charles; Charles was almost kinder in that he confined his manipulations to only poor Francis, who anyhow at times gave as good as he got. 

Henry turned aside. He wished, for what would not be for the last time, that Julian had not accepted a sixth student. Richard had been enough of a distraction before he had invaded Henry’s sacred space. 

The one mercy, as Henry figured it, was that now that Richard had been inducted into their class, he could be dissected methodically and then moved past, any tempting wrinkles of personality laid flat to view. This plan was unfortunately thwarted by the fact that the more time Henry spent around Richard, the less he felt he knew about him; Richard was in turns eager to please, and unwilling to even run into them in the halls— pretending to have read more Greek than he truly had in a futile attempt to be accepted by them, and then later that same day slipping smoothly into a side corridor to avoid them. Henry feared he may be in for a more complicated investigation than he had first imagined, but he was still confident it could be done if only the subject would stop slipping just out of reach. 

(There was always the hope that Henry’s clinical scrutiny would be enough to scare Richard away; but Richard seemed somehow immune to it, in fact sometimes settling into an expression almost as dour as those that Henry routinely employed in order to deter their newcomer. In the meantime, Camilla and Charles had taken Richard under their wing; Charles was pleased, Henry thought, with Richard’s marble-cool rejection of Francis, and eager to regain his admirer's devoted, sole attentions. Bunny was equally delighted at a new plaything; only Francis shared Henry’s desire for distance.) 

When Henry received a call from Bunny asking that he cover for him, as he'd forgotten his wallet, the last thing Henry expected there was Richard, dressed in a luxuriant silk jacket in rich ivory, striped with a shade of peacock green that contrasted his hair— which in the golden afternoon light filling the restaurant gleamed auburn instead of its usual shade of coffee-brown. Shaking off his surprise, Henry ushered Richard to his car so that he could chauffeur him back.

The matter of Richard’s lunch with Bunny in general startled Henry, and the degree to which Henry found it objectionable startled him even more. On the way home, Richard in the backseat flushed lightly with embarrassment, apologizing as though _he_ were in the wrong and not Bunny- (“he said he was taking you out, didn’t he?” “well, yes, but—”), Henry found himself speaking more harshly of Bunny than he had perhaps ever. With some thought, Henry ended up concluding it was not due to it being Richard in specific that Bunny had scammed, but rather that Bunny had done it to a stranger at all— like a harried housewife spilling out all of her household’s dirty little secrets in a grocery store screaming match, Bunny had revealed his intimate cruelties to someone outside of their circle. That was all, Henry was certain of it. He dropped Richard off at Monmouth then headed back to his own apartment, resolving not to think of Richard any further.

Henry was almost immediately thwarted when he came over for the usual dinner at the twins' house to find Richard sitting at their kitchen table, his elbow resting just to the side of the scratch Bunny had left there ages ago. His face was set in that dour cast of his, which perversely cheered Henry; he directed a nod and infinitesimal smile toward the newcomer. 

Throughout that first dinner, Richard seemed withdrawn and unapproachable; hardly speaking, eating barely any of the good thick French bread Charles had baked, and none of the lamb chops (“are you a vegetarian? I’m so sorry, we must seem such lacking hosts, giving you no meatless options at all,” Camilla fretted. Richard looked frankly baffled for a moment, then murmured, “ah- no… well, I suppose…” and then, managing a slight smile, said, “It hardly matters.” in a polite, yet clear, dismissal). After the meal had ended, he begged illness, yet refused any sort of ride home, evidently preferring a twenty-minute walk in the cold to even a few minutes longer of their company. 

Despite this unfavorable first impression, they ended up somehow or another deciding to invite him out to the country house; Camilla braved the neon lights and vomit-stink of one of the college parties to fetch him from the pincers of a sharp-eyed performance major who was evidently trying to entice him with a facsimile of haughtiness; ironic, if you asked Henry, considering Richard was far more a master of ensnaring others with his own cool disinterest than any mere performance major could ever be, no matter how sharp-eyed. 

This second attempt went better; Richard was the perfect audience to the twins' boastful, delighted tour around the country house, and he seemed far more approachable now, the dour cast gone from his face. Somehow, he seemed to slid smoothly enough into their little group that by the second day they hardly noticed a difference at all. 

It was on the afternoon of that second day that Richard asked about the boat. Despite himself, Henry found himself rising agreeably to take it out for him. Camilla joined them, flattening her white sundress around her lanky legs as she rose. Out on the lake, Richard’s eyes mostly lingered on Camilla's long fingers where they trailed through the yellow birch leaves floating on the yellow surface, yet Henry was oddly satisfied to see a flush rise to Richard’s high cheeks at the sight of Henry’s arms bunching and extending as he rowed. 

That next morning, Henry found Richard awake far earlier than he had expected. Perhaps due to some lingering tiredness, or perhaps due to just a hint of his former impulsive nature that Julian hadn't quite been able to train out of him, he found himself asking, “You’re not very happy where you come from, are you?” The only mercy was that he managed to retain control over his voice, keeping it cool and detached at least, even as he asked this intimate question. 

Richard looked as startled as a deer in headlights; Henry was unable not to smile at the sight. “Don’t worry,” Henry reassured him in a measured tone. “You hide it very cleverly.” Richard was an excellent storyteller; he spoke with a smooth self-assuredness, the words flowing as silken and sweet from his tongue as liquor. Yet it never quite rang true; there was always a need, however slight, for the listener to suspend their disbelief, to surrender themselves to the daydream of it. 

Still, Henry didn’t mean to make Richard _stop_. He oddly enjoyed Richard’s lies— the glittering, dazzling past he wove with casual words; his father, the suit-wearing owner of an oil well; his mother the former actress, still occasionally recognized by fans in the grocery store; the salten pulse of the ocean against the cliffs at the beach house where Richard had grown up. Some of the stories Richard told— forgetting sunscreen one lazy day at the pool and within a mere hour of sunlight gaining the coffee-dark dappling of freckles that now defined his face; flicking junk food from a nearby gas station when he could get away with it; reading Tolkien while lounging in a favored tree- seemed to ring true, but even those, Henry could not be certain of. He oddly enjoyed the challenge of trying to figure out what was falsehood and what was truth, of trying to understand this reserved stranger, oddly small-presenced despite his willowy height, tranquil as the lake at the country house.

In addition to being an enchanting storyteller, Henry found Richard to be an excellent listener, the best Henry had had the pleasure of encountering. He had a gratifying way of watching Henry as he spoke, seeming to collect his words with the quiet satisfaction of a woman stringing pearls onto a necklace. His dulcet silences were as rich and full as velvet, feeling like neither an absence nor an intrusion, but rather the perfect, understated companionship that Henry had never quite found any of the others to be capable of; they were all prone to either sullen, hollow silences or babbling, dizzying conversation, depending on their moods. 

Like Henry, sleep often eluded Richard, and thus Henry was able to spend many a nighttime hour at the country house alone except for Richard, enjoying their shared, peaceable silence. He would sit, straight-backed, engrossed in his studies, while Richard lounged carelessly in the opposite chair, idly flipping through one of his paperbacks- often more studying Henry than anything else, a state of events which Henry found strangely enjoyable. 

Henry continued to watch Richard closely, noting details of interest: he swore in Spanish; he read endless mystery novels, most of them second-hand paperbacks with broken spines; he always, always, waited until everyone had started their food before he even lifted his fork and he never ate much, no matter what delicacies the twins produced to tempt him. He cut his own hair, although when Bunny asked for a trim Richard demurred, saying that it was easier with curly hair; any mistakes he made on his own hair were quickly disguised among the whorls of hair atop his head, whereas they would be starkly clear on Bunny’s own pin-straight hair. His dorm room, when Henry saw it, was almost as neat and well organized as his own, yet not in any fashion rendered impersonal; except perhaps for the fact that the only food in his all of his cupboards was a few jars of peanut butter and crackers, all of the same brand. He also seemed endlessly, painfully self-conscious of the fact that he was California and not the East Coast, an insecurity that Bunny exploited mercilessly— “You know, old man, those pants have a distinct West Coast cut to them,” Bunny would say, or, “I don’t think you’re pronouncing that word quite correctly.” 

One might expect that with the increasing complexity of arranging the bacchanal, Henry would be too embroiled in worries and careful planning to think much of Richard; yet he found himself continuing to do so despite himself. Wondering about Richard was a light counterpoint compared to worries of weather and how long they could fast before it became dangerous, and reminding himself of Richard’s own secretiveness helped quell the odd, uncharacteristic sense of self-recrimination that sometimes clung to Henry when he thought about how they were concealing this from him. 

One lovely autumn afternoon out in the country house, Bunny overturned the boat with Francis and Henry still in it, having seen a birch leaf that had, for some reason, taken on the shape of a water snake in Bunny's mind. Francis and Henry waded laughing out of the lake, white shirts translucent and clinging with water. Richard’s paperback lay forgotten, and his cheeks were as red as crisp September apples. Looking away, he adjusted the fit of his pants around his crotch. 

It was after one of the usual failed attempts at a bacchanal, clad in tattered and mudstained bedsheets, that Richard found them. He did not appear to making any particular effort to be quiet; he swayed as though drunk, and a lazy, drugged smile tugged at his lips; but his natural way of moving was imbued with a grace that meant even drunk there was no clattering into nearby fixtures, no accidentally stepping on a creaky step. It was thus that Richard wandered downstairs without any of them noticing, at least not until Camilla looked up, eyes wide, and said, softly, “oh.” 

“Ah,” Richard said, swaying, “I knew it!” 

After a long moment where nerves stopped their hearts, Henry nodded sharply to Camilla, knowing, though he hated to admit it, that Richard was most fond of her. “You knew what, darling?” Camilla asked in a kind, placating tone. 

“That you were wood nymphs!” Richard exclaimed in drunken delight. “It explains everything… no one could be so glorious as you and be human, too…” 

It was so wonderfully _Richard_ that they couldn’t help but burst into relieved, pealing laughter. Richard frowned, looking oddly hurt, and said, “I don’t know why you won’t let me come out dancing with you… I don’t mind it if I step into any fairy circles… this is only a dream, after all, and even so, why should I care if I spare eternity in a beautiful place… that _is_ what Julian means by living forever, isn’t it?” 

“Remember, this is only a dream,” Henry said in a soothing tone, approaching Richard as he might approach a wounded animal. “We would never go dancing without you in the waking world.” Richard hummed, looking relieved, and leaned against the arm Henry offered for support, murmuring, “You were right. About… about…” Abruptly he switched to Spanish. "La bellaza realmente es terror, y tú tan hermoso que tiemblo con miedo ante ti…." His tone changed, becoming almost musical. " _...como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma._ ” Richard bent at the waist, dry heaving over the side of the staircase.

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“Go to bed, Richard,” Henry said in English. 

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“No, no, you don’t realize, I understand it all now,” Richard said, wiping bile from his mouth. “Camilla...” he shook his head, eyes widened and mouth fallen half-open with awe. “...You are… all sharpness and light. Like a sword aflame.” He stared up at Henry with luminous eyes. 

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“Go to bed,” Henry ordered, sharp-voiced this time, and Richard obeyed, dutiful at last. 

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The next morning, Richard didn’t seem to remember any of this. He sat with Henry in their usual early morning quiet without even a hint of self-consciousness, and when Bunny rather bluntly asked how he’d slept the night before, he only said something about an odd dream, which he couldn’t quite remember now. 

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It was that next weekend that Camilla stepped on a piece of green glass in the lake. Richard approached, but Charles had already reached her. When Charles couldn’t bear to see the pain on Camilla’s face, even knowing it would spare her further pain later on, Henry was the one to pull the glass from her foot and lift her into his arms. Henry felt Richard’s eyes on his back, and he shifted her in his arms so that he was holding her bridal style. Richard's eyes followed him as he carried her inside. 

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The following weekend, Richard and Francis went out together on the lake. From the shore, Henry watched as Francis lifted Richard's chin with careful fingers, pressed his lips against Richard's cautiously. A flush spread across Richard's cheeks, watercolor staining canvas, and for a moment he melted into the kiss; then he pulled back and said something Henry couldn't hear from so far away. Richard returned to the shore and, flushing and refusing to make eye contact with any of them, headed inside without so much as a word. Francis flopped into the chair across from Henry's. "He says he's not gay," Francis explained in a faux-light tone. He was silent for a long moment, then he said with uncharacteristic seriousness, "that man is a heartbreaker, and I don't think he even knows it." Without looking up from his work, Henry filled a glass with bourbon and slid it over to Francis.

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After that, Henry found himself thinking of Richard less. There was Bunny to think of, after all; Bunny, who was feeling hurt enough at being left out that he might spill their secret cruelties to outsiders, in the same way he had shared them with Richard back before Richard had become one of them. Bunny, who demanded that Henry fulfill every idle desire that passed through his mind; clothes, and endless amounts of food, and even more petty things, such as that Henry stopped on insisting Bunny follow the rules of croquet. When these demands weren’t met, and sometimes even if they were, Bunny would taunt them with reminders of the bacchanal; humming the chorus of “The Farmer in the Dell” to himself during class, making jokes about lawyers and murder trials, and talking pointedly about how honest and moral he was, how he couldn't keep a secret to save his life. When this failed to provoke sufficient response, he would devolve to personal taunts; taunts to Francis about his homosexuality, to Camilla about her womanhood— to anyone who caught his attention, digging into whatever old wound he could find and reopen. 

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He found special pleasure in taunting sweet Richard, who, with no idea of what they had done to deserve this, always stood for the others. Part of the pleasure Bunny took in targeting Richard came from the way it always set the others to twitching, to whispering furiously to each other- “Why he’s got to bring _Richard_ into it?” 

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Bunny's favorite game was puncturing holes in Richard’s lies, for instance tricking Richard into saying his tie was Hermès and then reaching across the table to check the tag and catch him out, or, for example, asking coolly where _did_ Richard say he went for secondary? Camilla and Charles, who had taken a liking to Richard’s pure, simple charms, were especially irritated by this new habit of his. Francis was similarly irritated; like Henry, he enjoyed the glossy tales Richard wove, and he feared that if Bunny continued along these lines, Richard would cease to treat them to his lovely lies and instead replace them with cool, blank silence. Personally, of all of Bunny's cruelties directed towards Richard, Henry found himself most offended by the way Bunny continually asked about Richard’s family, delighting in the way Richard each time went a sort-of greenish-white color. 

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The worst part when Richard began to grow numb to it, to accept Bunny’s cruelties with the cool unflinching manner of someone already tensed for pain (“I heard your parents are so disappointed with you that they didn’t give you so much as a cent for college, is that true?” Bunny asked eagerly. “Yes,” Richard replied in bland monotone. Francis, who had once devolved into hysterics the halving of his substantial pocket money, sent a stricken glance towards Richard, but Richard was staring off into space, his face in that cool cast of his that forbade comment or companionship.) As the term came to an end, Bunny taunted him with the fact that _he_ would be heading to Italy with Henry while Richard could not so much as head home; privately Richard assured them that it wasn’t so bad as Bunny made it out to be; he would be at Hampden, yes, but it would be a good opportunity to continue his studies, and he had never liked holidays much, anyhow. 

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Richard turned out to be a more credible liar than Henry had realized, because it was only after Henry was in Italy with Bunny that Richard’s reassurances began to ring false to Henry. In truth, Henry began to worry only because the twins were sending along rather worrisome letters Richard had originally addressed to them. Scrawled in an unsteady, jerky script across the printer paper Henry recognized as being offered free at the Hampden library, these letters ruminated on solitude and cold and beauty. In one, Richard included a composition that seemed to reflect on the invisibility one could gain lingering in public spaces; in another, he described a vivid dream he had had, of being an explorer lost in the wilds of the Arctic, surviving in that harsh, raw land through sheer will. Most worrisome of all, no matter how Charles charmed, no matter how Camilla flattered, Richard refused to say where he was living. 

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As soon as Henry returned to Hampden, he began looking for Richard, methodically investigating until at last he closed in on Richard. When Henry finally reached Richard at last, Henry was half relieved and half sickened, selfishly almost wishing he had never found this strange version of sunlit, Californian Richard, now winter-pale with his eyes glassy and dull as a stuffed trophy, worn thin like a long-trampled rug. He swayed on legs as unsteady as a newborn foal’s; Henry caught him with a pang. How could he have let Richard do this to himself? How could he have not seen through Richard’s lies? 

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Henry would decide, as he sat at Richard’s bedside, that he had not seen the truth because the thought that Richard would avoid help when he so clearly, desperately needed it, simply did not occur to him. Bunny never hesitated to demand that every idle whim of his heart was fulfilled; and though Francis and the twins hardly lacked in what they wished, neither did they hesitate in expressing any desires that may occur to them. Richard, Henry realized, was as proud and upright as a pauper prince, his only wealth the mannerisms and bearing that left others assuming he had a crown beyond his circlet of dark curls. 

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It was not just. Richard must have clothes of the softest fabric so as to avoid scratching his downy skin, delicacies with which to tempt his shy appetite, the finest of books to fill his loam-dark eyes with light. Thus Henry brought him pajamas of smooth Egyptian cotton, oranges to remind him of the orange groves he had described back in California, endless books from his own library. (If part of this came from a selfish desire to see Richard wearing Henry’s clothes, to watch the sticky juices of the oranges gloss his lips, to speak to Richard about his favorite philosophers, Henry refused to acknowledge it.) 

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After Richard was discharged from the hospital, Henry brought him to his own apartment. They spent their time in the same full, comfortable silences as before- Henry cooking and Richard washing dishes, his pianist fingers scrubbing careful circles on a blue willow china plate; Henry sleeping in the fold-out and Richard in Henry’s bed, among Henry’s covers and resting his head on Henry’s silk pillowcase; reading in mutual silence together in the evenings, Richard sometimes rising to brew hot chocolate (always with added cayenne pepper) for the both of them. 

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Richard seemed happy enough there, but Henry was dismayed to come back from the library early one afternoon (he was thinking of trying to cook something a bit more complicated, entice Richard to eat a bit more) and find Richard standing on the steps of the apartment, his illness-atrophied arms trembling as he struggled with his suitcase. 

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“Richard, what are you doing?” Henry asked, reproachful. 

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“The dorms have opened up again,” Richard explained. He looked down, flushed. “You’ve been so gracious, I don’t want to intrude on you any further than I already have.” 

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“If you were intruding, I would have never invited you to stay with me at all,” Henry reassured him with a touch of bemusement. 

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“But- I’m not doing anything for you. I have no way to pay you back,” Richard protested. 

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Henry examined Richard for a long moment, noticing idly as he did the lush color that spread across Richard’s face under his gaze. “If you really wish to pay me back,” Henry said slowly, “Allow me to ask you a question each day, and answer, honestly.” 

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Richard’s brow furrowed as though he thought Henry was joking, but when Henry’s expression stayed unchanging, he nodded. “Alright,” he murmured. 

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And so Henry was able to return to the matter of understanding Richard once more, with proper attention this time. Henry had so many questions to ask- about Richard’s name (Richard answered that as far as he was aware, he was descended from neither French royalty, nor Nazi brass); about what books he _had_ read (not many of import, it turned out); why he swore in Spanish (because his mother was from Mexico, and she had spoken Spanish to him as he grew up). With each question, at least three more seemed to bloom in its wake; trying to understand Richard was like trying to fight a hydra. Still, Henry forged on, too fascinated to even think of giving up. 

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One question, in particular, was like opening Pandora’s box. Why didn’t Richard eat meat? 

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Question by question, day by day, Henry teased out the truth. Richard had rarely eaten meat, and then once eaten a piece of especially fatty meat which had upset his stomach and made him throw up; now he couldn't stand the taste of it. Why had Richard barely ever eaten meat? Because his parents didn’t let him. And why didn’t they let him? An argument. What argument? A shouting match between and his father, over rumors that Richard was gay, ending in a rant about how Richard was living under his father's roof, eating food that his father’s hard work had bought, yet disobeying his father. The end result of this had been that Richard was no longer allowed to eat anything except for whatever was left over after the rest of the family was finished.

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Henry felt a rush of cold, like he’d been abruptly thrust under the surface of a frigid lake. The set of Richard’s face demanded silence, so it was silence that they sat in, Henry the dangerous kind of still that spoke of a predator sitting with coiled muscles, waiting for the right moment to strike. 

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It was sometime that same day that Richard received a letter from Bunny. Henry found it crumpled in the trash can only a little while after their conversation; it was scattered with random capitalizations, written in smeared pencil, and it warned Richard repeatedly in vague terms to not trust Henry, that He was Not what He seemed. 

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Richard seemed upset. He looked greenish-white, as he had when Bunny had repeatedly brought the matter of his parents up. Uncharacteristically, Henry felt stirred to apologize. “I’m sorry, Richard," he said. "I shouldn’t have pressed you.” 

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Richard looked up, dark eyes gleaming. “If you were intruding, I wouldn’t have answered you at all.” 

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Still, Richard never quite seemed ready to go to bed that night. Henry lingered, not wanting to be the first to leave; but Richard didn't leave either. Finally, Richard confessed, “I don’t think I’ll be able to go to sleep. When I’m alone… I won't be able to stop thinking about it long enough to sleep.” 

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Some way or another they found themselves together in Henry’s bed. As Richard drifted off he curled into Henry’s chest, pressing his face into Henry’s shoulder. Henry cradled Richard in his arms and touched Richard's soft curls with careful fingers. The next morning, Henry woke with his pajama pants feeling uncomfortably tight. 

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“Let me do you a favor,” Richard murmured. 

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Later, curled together in a post-coital haze, Richard turned and spoke with slick, red lips. “May I ask you a question?” 

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Henry did not go tense, but it was only through the strength of his will. “Yes.” 

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“What happens when you no longer have questions to ask me?” Richard's eyes were as deep and full as the sea. 

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“Every answer you give raises a thousand more,” Henry replied. 

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Richard hummed, pressing close to Henry once more. "We have time," he said.

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But they did not. In the end, Henry would be left with an infinity of unanswered questions. It was an end that seemed dreamlike and unreal, compared to the crisp reality of those shared silences now shattered down the center by the crack of the gun.

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For Henry looking back on it would always bring on the blur and vagueness of dreamland. He remembered the struggle, slow and laborious as if they were in molasses. He recalled Richard’s graceful pivot into the line of fire, his arms raising to shield Henry. He would never, ever be able to forget the noise, that _crack_ that had extinguished their shared silence forever... the wine-red of Richard's blood slipping between those pianist fingers where they pressed into his own chest, those doe eyes growing glassy, the chalky-dry press of Richard’s lips to his cheek, as chaste as if it were already a kiss from beyond the grave. 

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The stillness that had reined, after the lovely Richard fell, was like the empty air of a class embarrassed by the return of a teacher; the shame of a child facing a scolding parent; the stillness of the sinner finally confronted by the consequences of their crime.

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**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering about the love pentagon, it's basically: Richard likes Camilla, Charles wants Camilla to pay attention to him. Francis likes Charles and also Richard (partially to make Charles jealous). Henry likes Richard but gets involved with Camilla because he wants Richard to be jealous because _Richard_ likes Camilla. Camilla would just like to be left alone, please. In short, it's a big fuckin' mess.
> 
> Richard is quoting Pablo Neruda in the second half of his statement in Spanish.


End file.
